


Infinite Possibilities

by Nynaeve



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Community: fandomaid, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nynaeve/pseuds/Nynaeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She keeps telling herself that she <i>lived</i> and that makes everything okay. So why isn't she okay? AU (Doctor Carter, S/J). Rated M for language and non-explicit adult situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Possibilities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canadianfolk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadianfolk/gifts).



> _Written for canadianfolk for the Hurricane Sandy Aid auction on LiveJournal (it only took me my entire pregnancy LOL). Thanks to SaraBahama for her read through :) Set in a universe where Sam never joined the military. In this permutation, Teal'c is part of the SGA. I have ideas for future stories in this universe (no guarantees) and for some reason, Teal'c's allegiances seem to play an important part in how everything turns out for our couple._

Today is a fucking bad day to die Sam determines as she wills her grip on the gun to be steady. This is her life on the line and she's a rat in a maze stuck at a dead end. She manages to hit everything except her target, which doesn't come as a complete surprise given that it's been a decade since she last held a firearm. Still, she'd been hoping for a bit of dumb luck. Her back thuds against the concrete wall. Damn. The glowing eyes are creepy as hell and she unloads into the man who was formerly Lieutenant Anderson. A few bullets lodge themselves in his torso, but he doesn't even notice. Her gun clicks. Shit. She drops it and it clatters to the floor. This is it and she steels herself for the inevitable end.

"You good, Doc?" Colonel Jack O'Neill appears from out of nowhere. She's not looking at him though because she's staring at the blood oozing from Anderson's head. She has no memory of a gunshot and her mind races to try to find pieces that have been sucked into a black void. His hand on her arm makes her jump and she sees him for the first time. "Doc?"

She's nodding and then she's not as her knees start to give out. He grips her arms and holds her up making her feel relieved and pathetic simultaneously.

"C'mon. Let's take you to the infirmary."

"I'm fine." Her voice is somewhere else, not inside her; she's mute and dumb and oh fucking hell, did she almost just die?

"Protocol."

She can't fight him, not that she would try. She's a possible threat even if she's trembling and can taste bile on her tongue. No one had expected it to be Anderson after all. The infirmary is busier than usual and Sam's legs fail her as she drops down onto a free bed. Jack stands to the side while Doctor Frasier gives her a thorough once over and she notices his finger never quite leaves the trigger of his gun. When she's proclaimed Goa'uld-free, he relaxes. She wishes she could do the same. They send her home because what else can they do with her? She tries music, a bath, but not even a shot of whiskey before bed soothes her anxiety.

For the first time in years she has vivid nightmares, the kind that wake her up in the middle of the night with her body shaking in terror. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Anderson. Sometimes he kills her. Sometimes she's trapped in her own body. Either way it never ends well and there's always dark, thick, crimson blood covering her hands. Her fears drive her back to work after two days of leave because she can't handle the silence and she needs to fill her mind with equations to drown out the images that haunt her.

Sam's pencil is hovering over a legal pad when Colonel O'Neill visits. He doesn't say anything; instead he settles onto a stool and pulls out a yo-yo. It travels up and then down and rather than turning her attention back to the work that's supposed to be her comfort, she watches it. There's serenity in its motion. He stops and glances over at her.

"There a problem, Doc?" he asks, the blue yo-yo dangling, unwound.

"I…" She's looking for words that remain elusive. "Was there something I could help you with?"

"Thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," she assures him. Her hand starts to cramp and that's when she realizes how tightly she's gripping her pencil. She puts it down. "I'll be fine."

"You know, Anderson was a good kid. He had a lot of potential. Shouldn't have had to end like that," he sums up as he rewraps the yo-yo string. "Well, if you're okay…"

Sam gives him a weak smile and she knows it doesn't touch her blue eyes. "I'm okay."

He shrugs and she's about to return to her half-done, incomprehensible equation when he stops in the doorway. "You know if for some reason you decide you're not okay, my number's in the phone book. O'Neill. Two 'L's."

His words come back to her three days later after she's had three shots of Jack Daniels and is debating a fourth. It's dangerous, finding solace in alcohol, and she's worried that she might be headed towards a cliff. She pours another shot and drops the glass when her phone rings, startling her. It's her father, so she lets it go to the answering machine.

" _Hey, it's your old man. I was… well, I was sitting here watching television and I realized I hadn't called in a while and… just call me whenever you get this. Love you kiddo."_

The sound of her father's voice and the pungent aroma of alcohol make her eyes drift towards the piece of paper where she'd jotted down Colonel O'Neill's number. She'd looked it up in a panic the night before because she swore someone had broken into her house. A butcher knife and a quick check of the doors and windows had proven her alone. Was it strange that she felt disappointed? Her emotions are the size of Godzilla and she keeps telling herself that she  _lived_  and that makes everything okay. So why isn't she okay?

"O'Neill."

"It's…" she chokes on her words for a second because holy Hannah, what is she doing? "It's Doctor Carter. Samantha. Sam."

There's shuffling in the background. "Doc. Sam. Hey. Everything all right?"

"Yes. No." Damn the fog around her brain. "I'm having a hell of a night."

"Finish the bottle yet?"

She closes her eyes. "No. I don't know that I could," Sam admits as she wanders over to her couch. "Am I that obvious?"

"You're not slurring that badly… yet." He sounds amused. "Can't sleep?"

"Haven't been able to since…" she trails off and inhales. "Anyway, I don't even know why I called."

"My reputation for witty repartee perhaps?"

She laughs, really laughs, and it feels good to chuckle even if it's not all that funny. "Sorry, you just didn't strike me as the 'witty repartee' type."

"Strong, silent type perhaps?"

"Try full of military bravado and arrogance," she replies and she winces as the words tumble out. Damn whiskey. "Is it too late to mention I have military daddy issues?"

This time he laughs and the tension in her shoulders dissipates. Jack doesn't press her about her father or about what happened in the corridors of the SGA. The minutes tick by into hours and it's one a.m. by the time they hang up. She has nightmares again that night, but they don't rouse her into a panicked state.

The evening phone calls become routine after a week. They don't talk about anything deep, no heartfelt confessions of broken childhood dreams, no painful admissions of prior sins. It's like a ritual, the phone cradled on her shoulder while she curls up on the couch. Sometimes they watch something, other times she sits with a magazine saying nothing at all. Sam knows he's doing this for her; he never calls, she always does.

"If you could do anything, what would you do?" she asks one night. She's traded the whiskey for wine, a safer choice in her book.

"Retire. Go fishing," he answers without hesitation. "You?"

"Go through the gate." She puts her wine on her coffee table. "Pathetic isn't it? I was part of getting the damn thing up and running and I haven't even gone through."

"You're more valuable to us here."

She sighs. "That's what General Hammond said too."

Jack doesn't say more on it and neither does she, so the next day, when he drops a folder on her desk and tells her to gear up, she's in shock.

"Are you serious?"

He smiles. "Gate room. Two hours. Don't be late."

The feeling of going through the gate for the first time is disorienting, but unequivocally amazing. She doesn't know how he pulled this off; she's been requesting to go off-world since the beginning. Hammond told her that once they'd found a safe enough mission they might let her go.  _Might_. There's a definite hierarchy at the SGA and scientists are a necessary evil. Nevermind that they're the ones making the damn project possible. The sun above feels good against her skin though and it washes away some of the latent frustration at having been made to wait so long. She's millions of miles away from what troubles her and she's standing on alien soil instead of cold concrete. For a minute Sam can pretend she didn't fall apart in the face of certain death.

"At least you didn't puke," Ferretti comments, reminding her that she's not entirely disconnected from the world they've left behind.

"After the reports, I recalibrated the gate to account for…" she stops herself because he already looks bored.

She sets up equipment without any further attempts at conversation. Jack's engaged with setting up camp and doesn't say much to her except to assign Teal'c, the liberated Jaffa, to assist her. He doesn't discuss his team often, though she's heard whispers about the former First Prime of Apophis. The afternoon drifts into evening and when the sun is well below the horizon, the light show begins. She'd read about the dancing lights in a report, but seeing them… she stares straight up at the colors waving across the sky in hues of pinks and greens with the occasional flare of orange. Her equipment is gathering data and while Sam knows she should be checking on it, she's hypnotized.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?"

She drops her gaze to Jack who is looking pointedly at her despite the beauty above their heads.

"It makes me think of the Aurora Borealis," she comments.

"Care for some dinner while you take in the show?" he offers. They're close enough to the campfire that they can see each other's faces, but far enough away that the others don't seem to be paying them mind. He holds out an MRE. "I snagged you chicken and rice, though I'm not really sure it's going to be all that better than any of the others."

They sit together on the ground, saying little, focusing on the art spanning the night sky. The MRE is far from appetizing, but she eats it anyway. She's searching for words because having him next to her is different from having him on the other end of the telephone line.

"Magnets," he states, gesturing towards the sky with his hand.

The non sequitur baffles her. "Excuse me?"

"The sky. Solar winds and… magnets."

"The magnetic field of the planet, you mean." She smiles at the curtain of light.

"That's what I said," he retorts. "Or close to it."

She laughs and ducks her head down. When she turns her attention to him again, her breath catches in her chest. There's intensity in his expression, enhanced by the red of the fire. It's been a long time since a man has looked at her like that, as though she were the only one there. Sam's fingertips itch to reach out and trace the shape of his brow and to test the roughness of the stubble beginning to grow.

"Jack!" Kawalsky's voice from the other side of the camp breaks the moment.

He's apologetic in his expression, though it doesn't stop him from resuming his role as commander of a highly trained military unit. Sam struggles over this part of her she's kept tucked away. She loves and she hates the military; it's where she came from and what she rebelled against. A civilian working at a military installation is, in some ways, a slap in the face to her father who couldn't grasp why she would settle for  _terra firma_  when she had the potential to be an astronaut. She'd been angry once, the wounds raw without a mother to help her decide her future. Maybe the fury has ebbed in the cold, silent years between then and now. Maybe that's why she can look at Jack O'Neill despite the uniform.

The unfamiliar atmosphere disrupts her sleep and she wakes with a jolt before the sun has touched the sky. The colors are dancing against the canvas of black and Sam lies there, watching, letting their hypnotic movements occupy her mind.

"Another nightmare?" Jack is a few feet away, sitting with a metal cup, his gun where he can grab it quickly.

She nods and he motions to the empty space next to him on the large rock he's perched on. She knows she won't get anymore sleep tonight, so she joins him, their shoulders touching. His proximity grounds her and she leans into him. He feels real. More real than the demons in her dreams.

"I dream about Anderson," she admits. Jack doesn't say anything and she's grateful for that. Too many people speak when they should keep their mouths shut. "I don't know what was scarier, that I was about to die or that I could have ended up with that parasite in my head."

"All things considered, I'd take dead over snaked."

Sam closes her eyes, her head resting on his shoulder. "Yeah. I think I would too."

They stay like that until the sun breaks the dark night and when they're back on Earth, she catches him with his hands shoved in his pockets, waiting for her outside the conference room. She tucks a long strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"Thanks," she tells him, "for the mission."

"You deserved it. Who knows, maybe we'll get you into the field more often."

She smiles. "Maybe." Jack shifts his weight and there's a beat between them. Sam goes for gold because she's tired of settling for concrete walls and cold pizza. "You want to get a drink?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

He buys her a drink, or two, or three even though she was the one that invited him out. She loves numbers. He loves stars. He has a telescope that she should see sometime.

"How about tonight?" she interjects after her third drink is halfway gone. She'd blame the liquor except that she's been trying to figure out how to get Jack to take her home since she got in his truck.

That's how she ends up in his bed, his hands everywhere on her body as he whispers her name in long vowels. Sam wants as much as she can take as she loses herself in the ecstasy that comes from the friction of skin against skin. After, in the dark, she shudders as a breeze passes through the open window and over her sated form. They should probably talk, but she's exhausted and she doesn't want to ruin the harmony of the hum coursing through her veins.

The sunshine coupled with the rich aroma of coffee rouses her the next morning. Her own clothes are scattered, so she pads out to the kitchen in nothing but Jack's BDU shirt and her panties causing Jack to trace her body with hunger in his eyes. Sam has no regrets about last night, however day has brought with it the sobering reality of what she's stepping into. He hands her a mug of coffee and she takes a sip to delay the conversation that has to happen.

"Look, I don't know how all this works," he says, leaning on the counter opposite to her. "I haven't been with anyone in a while." She knows he means his ex-wife whose visage graces several of the photographs she passed on her way to the kitchen.

"Me either."

"Really?"

"Working on a PhD in astrophysics doesn't exactly lend to having a lot of time for relationships. Then I was working on a super secret government project which as you can imagine shuts down most first date conversations." She grips her coffee with both hands.

"It's just that…" he pauses. "Honestly, you're hot and I can't be the only one who's noticed."

She flushes. "I don't date military." The words come out before she can edit them and she bites the inside of her cheek as she watches them settle on Jack. It's the line she's used to keep the lonely captains and the green-behind-the-ears airmen from exerting too much effort hitting on her. It sounds hollow now, in the face of a man she feels drawn to.

"Oh. So last night was…" he clears his throat.

"No. It wasn't. I…" They're talking in half-sentences and barely formed thoughts and Sam's desperate for words that are painfully out of reach.

"It's okay. We didn't exactly talk about what it all meant."

"You're different," she says and it sounds lame but she doesn't know what else to say. "This, you, us, this is complicated for me."

"Because I'm military."

"And because I still have nightmares. I feel like a mess." There's a back story that explains everything except it's not easy to tell and it means baring her soul in a way she's not ready to. For men like Jack, the military isn't a job, it's an ideal, it's a way of being, and it alters his perception of the world. She knows because she lived it and in some fashion she still does.

"Sometimes another person can make it better."

"But what does it do to the other person?" she asks. Sam knows how heavy burdens can become and she doesn't want to destroy him with the reverberations of fear inside her.

He shrugs and they share stilted small talk over cereal much too sweet for her palate.

Sam ends up leaving without either of them knowing what will happen next. She doesn't call him. He doesn't stop by her lab. Sex wasn't supposed to make everything awkward, but it did exactly that and now she's relegated to furtive glances across the commissary when their paths cross. The nightmares come back with a vengeance and it leaves her wondering how long she can go without sleep before she goes completely mad. She makes an appointment with a therapist that has clearance because it's not right that she feels this visceral desperation to see Jack.

"It's okay to need someone," Doctor Smith tells her one afternoon after she finally confesses how much she misses the late night phone calls.

By the time she talks herself into dealing with the issue, SG-1 is sent off world and she's stuck with red Jell-O and coffee that's long since gone cold. It gives the knot in her stomach time to grow.

On her way back to her lab the next day she runs right into him and she blames the sleep deprivation for her lack of attentiveness.

"Sorry," she manages and he just stands there, staring at her as though she were a puzzle. "Are you okay?"

"You make it better."

She swallows. "Um. What?"

"You make it better."

He walks off leaving her to muddle through what his words meant. Later she'll hear about the crystal. Later she'll find out that the man in the hall wasn't Jack O'Neill. Later she'll hear the whispers about an alien taking the form of his son. She's missing information to put together the pieces, so she leaves it, tucked away. Once in the safety of her house, she grabs a beer and flips channels, searching for a distraction. The hours tick by as she avoids slumber with every bit of willpower she has. Her phone ringing startles her from the zombie-like state she'd drifted into.

"He's dead." Jack's words are a bit slurred.

"Who?"

"My son."

"I'm sorry." She has no idea if this is a recent occurrence or if he's lived with the memory for years.

"It was my fault."

Sam grips her phone tighter. She doesn't think he'd be this open if he hadn't been drinking. It hurts to hear him be vulnerable as a result of a liquor-induced stupor. She puts down the remote. "My mother died when I was thirteen. I blamed my dad for a long time." It's a stupid response, but she can't come up with a better one.

"Why?"

"Because he should've been there," she explains. Sam picks at an imaginary thread on the blanket she's got around her shoulders. "Of course it wasn't his fault."

His breath is all that indicates to her that he's there on the other end. "Was Anderson the first time you'd shot a gun?"

"My dad tried to teach me when I was sixteen." Her voice is steady though her hand trembles as she remembers the weight of the gun she couldn't aim.

"Didn't stick though."

"I think he just wanted to make sure I didn't shoot myself." There's a tell tale sound of pouring and she grimaces. She's afraid to ask how much he's had. She sits up. "Jack, you're not… I mean you've been drinking and you don't have a loaded gun, do you?" A chill cuts down her spine because she's heard stories of soldiers with PTSD and she knows the man on the phone has seen his fair share of horror.

"I survived Abydos the first time. I figure the universe must want me alive. Or at least the United States Air Force," he assures her, sarcasm dripping through his alcohol-laden haze. His tone drops to an agonized whisper. "My son, Sam. I didn't fucking clear the gun."

She wants to hang up. She wants to pretend she never met Jack O'Neill. She wants to go to him. She wants to take her clothes off and she wants to use pleasure to assuage the pain they both feel. What's broken inside of him will always be broken though and she worries that she'll always be broken too. "Jack…"

The line goes dead and she's left sitting, vacillating with revelations she can't process. The thoughts race through her head and keep her tossing and turning for most of the night. This time Anderson isn't the man in her dreams, this time it's Jack and  _his_  hand around her throat. Sam longs for dreamless sleep and it comes to her as the sun peeks through her blinds. The next morning she feels like hell although Jack appears far worse. He shows up in her lab and sits on his stool, his yo-yo in hand.

"Surprised you can focus," she comments.

"I've been worse."

He's not forthcoming and she doesn't feel much like pressing him, so she ignores him while working on the data they gathered from the crystals. There are too many thoughts in her head for her to give voice to and she's feeling some degree of anger at him for leaving her trapped in an emotional hell.

"I'm having a barbecue on Saturday. Three o'clock." He fiddles with his yo-yo.

Sam doesn't want to go and yet she does. "Okay. Thanks."

He leaves and she doesn't see him again until she shows up at his house, the get-together in full swing. No one notices her slip in and she's got a beer in hand when Kawalsky wanders up to her.

"He's moping."

She pauses mid-sip and gives him a sideways glance. "What?"

"Jack. He's moping." Kawalsky points towards his left and she catches sight of Jack at the grill. "Well, his version of it anyway."

"And why do you think I care?"

He snorts. "You think I don't notice that he prefers your lab to the commissary? What'd you do? Dump him?"

"We aren't dating."

"Maybe you should be."

After Kawalsky walks away, Sam escapes to the house. There are hazards to spending too much time in a lab and one of those is missing the gossip only to discover that she's the topic. She hates being the center of attention because that's not who she is. She's a scientist. She solves the problems from behind the curtain. Inside she stares at the pictures. She sees Jack in his dead son's eyes. There are some things she thinks are impossible to know unless one's been there. The love of a child. The death of a child. The overwhelming grief at waking up next to the person who was one-half of that child now gone. She doesn't know how Jack survived the dissolution of everything he loved.

"You okay?" Jack's voice draws her from her morose contemplation.

"Fine."

"I thought maybe Kawalsky had said something stupid. You ran in here quick." He's not meeting her eyes and she hates how strange it all feels. She misses the ease of him in her lab. The mild irritation at him touching her gadgets and gizmos was comforting in light of the suffocating shame that hangs over him. He scratches the back of his neck. "The other night, I'm sorry."

"You were drunk."

He contorts his face at her blunt description. "I promise I don't make it a habit."

"Was it because of him?" She can't say Charlie's name. It feels sacred given the space they're occupying.

"And her. And all of it."

She reaches out and touches the edge of the picture frame. "I can't save you." And she knows in that instant that he can't save her either.

They're interrupted by a guest on the hunt for the bathroom and Sam stays long after the final person drives off. They're sitting with his telescope, the one she hadn't gotten a chance to see the last time on account of ending up in bed. The constellations mean more to her than mere pictures in the sky. They're  _her_  stars and no matter where she moved growing up, they remained constant. The fact that Jack speaks their names with reverence as they point the telescope towards the distant points of light tells her that she's found a kindred spirit.

This time, the movements towards intimacy are slow. She sits closer, he leans in more. Somewhere between Orion and Ursa Minor he kisses her and she doesn't pull back. His fingers press into her thigh and he explores her with his lips. The intoxication of his scent makes it a blur from the roof to his bedroom. The ambient lighting of an outside streetlamp helps her wandering hands to find purchase on his torso so she can satisfy the desire building between them.

She's not a reckless woman. Spontaneity has never been her thing. Math equations require patience. Science is meticulous. The man underneath her is a contradiction to everything she is, or perhaps he's the catalyst, awakening her to an experience she's never considered trying. Sam is letting her emotions set the pace; she's taking risks she might have otherwise passed by. The room is punctuated by mewling whimpers and whispered encouragements amid a symphony of pleasured curses and gasping moans.

"Jack." His name is drawn from her along with her breath and she trembles as she settles back into herself. She leans forward and puts her head on his chest. The rapid thumping of his heartbeat is steady and calming. For the first time in her life, she almost feels like she belongs and she tries to curl herself around the rare experience, to keep it from disappearing.

She falls asleep wrapped around him, which is unusual given her penchant for a solitary existence. As her mind drifts towards the oblivion that comes with dreaming, she wonders at the strange turn of her life that would have her feeling as connected as she does to this particular man. Gravity makes more sense now than it ever has, or so she thinks as peaceful slumber claims her.

The next morning she finds Jack reading the paper on his couch. She slept last night, really and truly, with no one chasing her and no near dream-deaths. He glances over the top of the sports section.

"You want coffee?"

"Please."

They take it out onto the deck, the morning cool yet comfortable. She sips and she relishes the fresh air and the calm.

"You seemed to sleep okay," he comments.

"I did. I think…" she doesn't fully want to admit what she's about to say. "It's harder when I'm alone."

"It usually is." There are hints of stories not yet told, a look in his eyes that says he's been alone, as alone as anyone could get, and that he understands even if he doesn't use words. It gives her hope that maybe she'll be able to walk down the corridor where she was cornered and not feel the room closing in on her.

Sam tucks her legs under her. "I'm a geek you know."

"A hot geek," Jack corrects.

"But still a geek."

"Are you trying to talk me out of something?"

She peers over her mug at him. "I just wanted to make sure you're aware of what you're getting into."

"That would take the fun out of it."

There are a thousand variables she hasn't accounted for and on any other day that would drive her crazy. Right now, though, she wants to stay like this for as long as she can because he pushes away the demons that have been dogging her steps since the second she thought her life might be snuffed out.

She sips her drink and inhales the sweet aroma. In this moment, she can feel the hints of a feeling she's longed for, a feeling that has been steadfastly out of reach. The first touches of peace settle over her and she smiles. Without doubt she knows that she's going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [ ](http://www.samandjackawards.com/home.html)   
> 


End file.
